


no one could save me (but you)

by badhabitforgoodporn, sapphire2309



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Learning to Trust Again, Past physical abuse, d/s verse, hospital au, loss of voice, past emotional abuse, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badhabitforgoodporn/pseuds/badhabitforgoodporn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: The rescue isn't the end of the story. Neal's still a mess. Enter Sara.





	1. Chapter 1

Sara makes her way through the psych ward with a frown on her face. "What was so urgent that you called me in on my one off day?"

"Have you read the news, Dr. Ellis?"

Sara shrugs. "Someone dropped trou on camera, someone's stylist went temporarily insane, peep-toes have been outlawed."

Winston Bosch blinks.

"I stick to gossip when I'm on vacation."

Bosch sighs and shakes his head. "The raids were preponed. We've got the worst-affected of the lot."

"And there's someone just a bit too far gone for you boys to handle."

Bosch nods. "Switch locked into subspace for too long. You know how bad those can get."

"The number of laws I break for your bottom line..."

 

Of course, all her misgivings mysteriously vanish when she sees the state this switch is in. 

He's in a straitjacket, thrashing violently against anyone who even tries to come near him, while also whimpering needily (likely craving some kind of structure or order, given how these cases go).

Sara takes barely a moment to let her face settle into stone before walking into the fray.

His eyes fix on her as soon as she walks in. Not surprising, seeing as everyone else in the room takes a step back in deference. His whimper turns to a low growl as she steps right up to his bed (even before she walked in, most everyone was keeping their distance, even the doms). She stands there, quiet, her eyes locked with his, till the growl dissipates into a whimper again and he isn't thrashing so much as trembling, anticipating something unpleasant.

Sara raises her right hand and lets the boy's eyes fix on her palm before sliding the hand under his neck. She lets her fingers tug at his hair, causes him the slightest amount of pain, just enough to indicate that she doesn't quite care about him, but not so much that he sees her as a threat.

"You answer to me now," she informs him in a flat tone. 

His rapid breathing starts to slow at the firm hand on his neck. She tugs his hair upward slightly, encourages him to lie higher in the bed, bury himself further in the pillow.

She stays with him till he relaxes enough to be sedated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarifying the warnings - Neal has been raped, but I'm not sure what part that will play in the story yet. Depending on how it goes, I'll either leave the warnings as they are or modify them.

"How is he?" Bosch asks, when the boy has finally sunk deep into an artificial sleep. 

Sara purses her lips. "Responsive. Traumatised. The usual. I'll need his case file, history, anything we can find on him."

"That's going to be difficult. We haven't even ID'd him yet. This training facility seems to have been particularly lax."

"They'll have some record of him. Judging by his state, they've been around for a good long time. You don't make it that long without some kind of system in place."

Bosch looks at her, mildly impressed. "Sometimes, I think you should have applied to the FBI. Worked in recovery."

Sara's back stiffens imperceptibly. 

"...Dr. Ellis?"

Sara blinks, focuses again. "Who'd save your ass every other day, then?" she says lightly, as though the silence never was. She walks away without another word. 

 

Neal closes his eyes tighter against the light in the room. His lips twitch slightly. His left hand shifts in its restraint to touch his thigh. 

_Awake_ , his brain informs him, just as a voice to his left says, coolly, "Good evening."

His eyes snap open and focus on the source of the voice. A woman. She was here, before his energy drained out of him. They must have given him something. 

"The straitjacket is gone. I told your doctors you'd behave." Neal looks down at his arms. They aren't forced to his chest anymore, just cuffed to the sides of the bed. "You _are_ going to behave, right?"

Neal parts his lips, tries to say "Yes," but all that escapes is a rush of air and a slight moan. Grimacing, he nods once, slowly. 

"Your vocal cords are damaged. The doctor's going to come in and see you, but first, I need your name. Will you give me your name?"

Eyebrows furrowed, Neal nods again. He's not sure how he'll tell her anything. He could write it down, but his hands are very unsteady. 

His confusion is resolved when she brings out a board with all 26 letters on it and rests it against his thigh, near his hand and in her line of sight. 

"Go ahead," she says. 

Hand shaking violently, he reaches out for the letter 'n' and lays his index finger against it firmly. His eyes dart rapidly from the board to her, waiting for a blow to his knuckles, an insult, something, he doesn't even know. He knows he probably isn't supposed to be doing this, but she asked, didn't she?

She looks away from the board and at him when his finger doesn't move. "N. Okay. Carry on."

Dizzy with relief, he taps out e a l in quick succession, and lets his hand fall back to the bed as he exhales slowly. 

"Okay, Neal. That's very good. But I need your full name."

He whimpers deep in his chest. 

"The centre needs records on you before we can start treatment."

His jaw doesn't stop trembling. He knows he'll be reprimanded for this, but he doesn't have a choice. He taps out his name and immediately turns away, eyes closed, fists clenched, waiting. 

_That's not how you wait for punishment_ , a snarling voice in his head informs him. 

Hesitantly, he opens his eyes and turns his head back to face her.

"Neal Daniel Brooks?"

Eyes blown wide, he shakes his head. 

"Daniel Brooks."

He nods. 

"But you prefer Neal."

He nods again. 

She lifts her hand slowly. He focuses on her palm, on the ring on her ring finger, anything to keep him from closing his eyes and breaking the rules again. He can't get his body to relax as her hand approaches him. 

Instead of hitting him, though, her hand rests on his forehead and brushes his hair back gently. "Good," she says, her voice losing its harsh tone for the first time. "You did good."

He starts shaking, his breath hitching, eyes leaking tears uncontrollably. She wasn't playing any games. The gamble paid off. 

He closes his eyes and lays there, relishing the feeling of her hand in his hair. 

Maybe he's safe here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, kind of lost the plot on this one. I think I've got it though!
> 
> i figure it's about time to tell you that this is sapphire2309 writing from a separate account. I'll move some of my fic to this account for categorization purposes.
> 
> Tags have been edited. Previously posted stuff has had minor edits inflicted on it - I've fiddled with sentence structure, but it's largely the same. 
> 
> I'm no expert - I'm making some stuff up as I go. It _is_ a D/s verse, after all. Don't mind me if I commit crimes against psychology.
> 
> originally posted 04/12/2017. updated 06/01/2018 - expanded by about 200/300 words, tense changed from past to present (how did that fuckup even happen ugh.)

Sara isn't sure what to think anymore. 

On the one hand, he has the bruises to suggest a few months of captivity in the kind of corrupt slave training centre he'd been rescued from. On the other hand, his demeanour, his responses, the way he was afraid to even communicate his _name_ , all of that suggests abuse over a _much_ longer period of time. Years, even. Corrupt trainers looking out for their bottom line just don't have the skill set to remake a person this completely, not over a few short months, no matter how many bruises they dish out.

She'll have to be more careful than she usually is, with him.

-:-

The woman snaps her fingers right in front of his face. "Pay. Attention." It's fair, he supposes, and it doesn't hurt, which is a nice bonus, and a rarity when it comes to reprimands from dominants, or at least the ones he's encountered.

He'd been daydreaming about the charcoal Monet he'd been planning for the wall of his room. They didn't exactly _let_ him draw, but it kept him sane, it was easy enough to scavenge charcoal or a pencil or dust, if it came to that. And honestly, if he's going to be beaten up every day, it may as well be for something he actually enjoys. But the doctors are going on about important things like the procedures they'll have to perform and recovery times and rehab, and he should probably listen.

They're worried about his spleen and his intestines. Which makes sense, he's been beaten up a lot. They apparently did a CT scan while he was under, and there are broken bones in his left arm that healed badly. They want to rebreak those, _which is going to hurt, we're afraid._ That doesn't faze him. He can handle pain.

Apparently his knees are an absolute mess and need to be replaced with metal ones and he needs to be taught how to walk all over again, which is going to take time. God, he doesn't remember the last time he walked. He mostly crawled when he was by himself, resting his weight on the soles of his feet and not his knees so moving didn't have to _hurt_ so fucking much. The trainers didn't really care, they just dragged him around by his hair and slammed him into the ground wherever they saw fit. He remembers the times (not long ago, he couldn't tell you in days or months but he knows they were there and they were real) when he was treated like fine wine, when he had carefully built-up callouses that helped him stay comfortable when he was kneeling, when he was given showers and food like they were air, when he could dream of luxuries like being hand-fed and having his hair stroked and being held like he was precious.

His vocal cords are apparently a serious concern, because that procedure is saved for the end of the briefing and discussed in very low voices. They've called their in-house specialist, who really wants to consult a better specialist from some fancy medical college, because apparently he's made a spectacular mess of his throat by screaming till he couldn't hear himself, and then trying to yell some more anyway. It makes sense that they'd be worried. Vocal cords must be delicate, and it'll probably be easier to function in society if he has a voice. All he can manage right now are animal sounds that aren't much use and only irritate his damaged larynx. The thing is - even if he _did_ have a voice, he doesn't see it being of much use. He doesn't know the first thing about being independent, living alone, paying taxes, any of that. He had one year of glorious hedonistic freedom after leaving home, and then six months of staying in the wrong Dom's crosshairs, and then this.

Well. He'll learn. Probably.


End file.
